The stage – a flat empty floor; big empty floor.

The stage – a marriage bed.

And here’s this artist, on a marriage bed stage, whispering to the audience,

"Are you awake?"

A little nudge on the shoulder, "Sssst. Are you awake?"

Beautiful audience groaning, "Go away."

Hungry artist running gentle fingers through the hair;

brushing hair away from the deaf, deaf ear

and lips lightly tugging at the lobe.

The audience: "Go to sleep!"

Look at this stage. It’s just a blank slate about

yea wide and yea deep. Big unpainted canvas.

Restless artist hand on the audience heart, wondering,

"How long do I need to feel this pulse?

How long before the palm of my hand sensing the beat of your heart

knows how to open it?"

That hand moving down to the belly, over the navel.

Artist wondering, "If I rest my hand on your stomach

can I figure out what makes you hungry?"

One finger slipping under the waistband.

That’d sure wake me up if you did that.

Big empty canvas blank slate stage floor marriage bed.

Persistent artist whispering a wake-up call.

That audience: "Will you let me sleep?

Maybe sometime later this week I’ll feel like it."

Maybe never, too.

Eyes meet in the dark: Angry eyes meet hungry eyes.

The stage; a page; a slate; a canvas; a bed.

Artist wide awake staring at the ceiling,